


Beneath the Bed

by Sunwhiskers



Category: Original Work
Genre: Horror, Monsters, Original Fiction, Other, Scary, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24916999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunwhiskers/pseuds/Sunwhiskers
Summary: I've been here longer than he knows.The floorboards have never creaked, the lights have never flickered, and the only cold spots in the room have been from the overactive vent beneath his nightstand.In the eyes of this family of three, I hardly exist.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5





	Beneath the Bed

I’ve been here longer than he knows.

The floorboards have never creaked, the lights have never flickered, and the only cold spots in the room have been from the overactive vent beneath his nightstand. When asked to check under the bed, mother and father find only shadows. Feet that hang off the edge of the bed are left untouched during the night. I’m less than subtle.

I'm only here to fulfill the obligatory duty of my species, and very occasionally sow some tiny seed of doubt that leaves the child wondering if that shadow really is just the coathanger.

In the eyes of this family of three, I hardly exist.

Generally, when we’re assigned to a child, we’re assigned to them from the moment of their first night home, and we remain with them throughout the duration of their childhood. In special cases, we can be assigned beyond the age of eighteen, but those are generally very unique circumstances. I’ve been with my child now for nine years, and as such have learned enough to know when something is wrong. Why I care is another story altogether, but know I’m not here to harm. None of us ever are. I'm here to fuel imagination, inspire caution, encourage fearlessness--and if need be, protect.

From what I've gathered over the years, the Kiltons’ neighborhood is friendly and small. Everyone knows everyone, everyone trusts everyone, and little happens to disrupt the peace. It’s the kind of neighborhood where leaving your child home alone for a few hours every week to take your wife out on a date isn't unheard of.

Still, there's no denying that the soft click I know belongs to the back door is two hours too early.

Damien is fast asleep by now. He's not the heaviest sleeper, but it takes more than a distant lock being picked to wake him. I lie silently as the tiniest creak of the well-oiled hinges echoes from below, listening further, stretching my olfactory senses, wide awake where before I’d been in a light doze. A myriad of scents strike me when I test the air. Sweat. Vinyl. Greed. Intent. Gunpowder.

For the first time in years, my limbs shift. My head emerges from beneath the platform bedframe. Damien does not stir, and I begin to make my way towards the first floor.

I am on my own, and that is how I like it.

I've only ever been outside his room twice before. Despite my perfect night vision, it takes some navigating to reach the entrance to the kitchen. The deliberate, muffled footsteps and shallow breathing help.

I am not clumsy, but the movement-activated trash can is sensitive. The amiable _beep_ it lets off is enough to alert the dark shadow drifting through the kitchen. For neither the first nor last time, I am grateful that I do not have skin. It enables me to be noiseless as I clutch the ceiling inches above the wary intruder’s head.

I allow my claws to let off the tiniest of scrapes when my lower limbs touch down behind the nervous man. It takes him a moment to see me through the blood pounding in his ears, and when he does, the acute terror hits me like a wall. At first, I do nothing, simply watching him remain paralyzed as my limbs unfurl, my jaw slides open, and all seven of my eyes snap awake. His lungs clench, and he opens his mouth.

I am grateful for Damien’s sleep that night. Were he awake to hear it, the sound I release into the stale air of the kitchen would kill him.

Not five minutes have elapsed when I slip back into my place under his bed.

His parents return early. I listen to their shock as they discover the man prone on their kitchen tile, and to their panic as they thunder upstairs. I remain motionless as the light comes on, his father dials an emergency number, and as Damien asks his mother why she’s crying.

I've been here longer than he knows.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few years ago in response to a prompt on Instagram and put it in the comments of the post. Don't remember the prompt or the post, and when I was reminded of this a couple kindly friends encouraged me to share it, so I cleaned it up and decided to post here. Not super content with it but I think it's neat and pretty decent! Criticism is always welcome ^^


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